


The End of Us

by HeidiHyena



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Drug Use, F/F, Unrequited Love, cis swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeidiHyena/pseuds/HeidiHyena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cisgirl!Michael/Cisgirl!Trevor. Michele and Trisha try on wedding and bridesmaid dresses for Michele's wedding, and Trisha is feeling more than a little upset about the whole situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of Us

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic contains reference to heroin usage. If you feel that that might upset/trigger you, but you still want to read the fic, you can read up until the story break.
> 
> Stay safe, and enjoy!

“Trish, zip me up.”

Trisha jerks her head up. She’d been staring at the floor and counting the tiles in the dressing room. That was the level of boredom she’d reached. Counting tiles. She’d already counted all the stripes in the wallpaper.

“What?” she replies dumbly.

Michele turns to look at her, hand on her hip. “Come zip up the back of my dress for me, dumbass.”

Trisha heaves a sigh as she stands up and walks over to her. She places one hand on the small of Michele’s back and the other on the zipper, feeling Michele inhale slightly. Once the zipper’s all the way up, she steps to Michele’s side, looking at her reflection in the mirror. 

“Sure you aren’t gonna pass out in that thing?” she asks. Michele had to suck her stomach in a bit to get the zipper up, and it was still pretty tight. 

“Fuck off, I’ll be fine.” Michele twists around, looking at the dress from different angles. “What d’you think? And no smart-ass comments.”

Trisha stares at Michele’s reflection. She looks good. Real good. The dress narrows her waist and highlights her breasts. And Trisha doesn’t know if it’s the baby or the wedding or whatever the fuck, but Michele has been glowing lately. Her face doesn’t look like she has something stuck up her ass for once. She looks happy, softer, face open and smiling. 

She stands there, staring at Michele in the mirror, until Michele clears her throat and says, “T?”

She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in. “Your tits look good,” she admits begrudgingly.

Michele gives a short laugh. “My tits always look good,” she replies, lips pursed in a self-satisfied smirk. “But thanks.” She bumps shoulders with Trisha companionably.

They’re both looking at their reflections in the mirror, Michele in her expensive, fancy wedding dress and Trisha in her tattered jeans and dirty plaid cotton shirt. 

“You okay, Trish?” Michele asks uncertainly. “You look a bit…rough.” 

Even Trisha knows that’s an understatement. She tends to avoid looking at herself in the mirror, but she’s looking now, and Jesus does she look awful. There are deep bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping much (which is true). Her ratty brown hair is tied into a hasty ponytail, but it’s clearly knotted and tangled from where she’s been lying on it. Her clothes are even dirtier than she usually lets them get, and she has bruises on her face from some fights she’d been getting into recently. Even she can admit she looks like shit.

“I’m fine,” she grunts. “Don’t you think wearing white’s a little dishonest?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Michele snaps. Trisha knew that would get her to change the subject. Michele has a huge temper and a huge ego. “Besides, white’s just traditional.”

“Whatever, M. I just think your baby bump showing through your white dress is going to look a bit hypocritical.”

“Come off it, T. I’m in a good mood, and I’m not letting you ruin it for me.” Trisha shrugs.

Michele steps back from the mirror and points to herself. “So, this one, right?” she asks.

Trisha folds her arm. She doesn’t understand why Michele dragged her along on this stupid errand. As if she gives a fuck what Michele wears for her wedding. “Sure,” she replies, trying to make it clear that she really doesn’t care.

Michele must have gotten the message because she heaves a sigh and says to herself, “Yeah, this one.”

Trisha sits back on the bench while Michele changes in the stall. She comes out in her regular clothes and puts her hands on her hips.

“Alright! Next order of business: getting you a bridesmaid’s dress.”

Trisha physically recoils in disgust. “Fuck no, you ain’t getting me into one of those flowery pieces of crap.”

“You can’t come to my wedding in jeans and a t-shirt, T,” Michele tells her.

“Well I’m not wearing any stupid dress either.” This was why Michele had forced her to come with her. She’d tricked her into a room with those shitty, ugly dresses and now she was trying to get her to wear one. Slimy asshole.

“Please, Trish. It’s my wedding, and you’re my Maid of Honor. For me?” Michele sounds so sincere that even though Trisha knows she’s a manipulative ass, has seen her use that tone of voice on plenty of guys, she hesitates. She really wants to say no, serve M right for dragging her here in the first place, but she looks so happy that Trisha just can’t bring herself to turn her down.

“Fucking fine,” she growls. “”I’ll wear the stupid dress for you.”

Michele goes and gets the bridesmaid dress that she’d apparently picked out beforehand, because she is a lying asshole who’d planned this from the start. Trisha starts to take her shirt off to try it on when Michele tells her to use the dressing room stall. She doesn’t see why she has to, it’s not like Michele hasn’t seen her tits before and it’s not like she cares whether other people do, but Michele insists, so she stomps into the dressing room.

The dress is a pale purple with shoulder-length sleeves, and when she slips it on it goes just past her knees. It makes her look kind of skinny, and the fabric feels weird against the hair on her legs, but for the most part it isn’t that bad. She steps out of the stall to show Michele.

Michele stands up when Trisha comes out, looking her up and down. “Fits pretty well, don’t it?” she says, and Trisha can her the smugness in her voice. “Twirl around, would you?”

“What the fuck?” Trisha snarls. “I’m not ‘twirling’ for you.”

“Okay, fine, just turn around then.”

“Jesus,” Trisha says, but she does so.

“Great! We’ll get this one, then. Looks good on you,” she hears Michele say.

Trisha turns around again. “Is the groom paying for all this shit?” she asks.

Michele shrugs like she’s trying to look nonchalant, but there’s some tension in her shoulders. “No, he can’t right now. The band’s at a bit of a low point right now, so I’m paying for most of the wedding.”

Trisha curls her lip in disgust. She doesn’t like Manny, and Manny doesn’t like her, so this information is just more proof that he’s a disgusting, useless asshole. “He gets you knocked up and he can’t even man up enough to pay for the wedding?”

“Jesus, T,” Michele says, sounding defensive and offended. “We’re not getting married because I’m pregnant, we’re getting married because we love each other.” 

Trisha snorts. “Oh, really? If there was no baby I fucking bet you his ass would already be out there cruising for pussy in the alleys outside the only dive bars trashy enough to hire his shitty band. In fact, how do you know he isn’t out there doing that right now?”

Trisha knows how to push Michele’s buttons and poke at her insecurities, and she’d just probed a lot of them into the open. She sees Michele visibly bristle. “Fuck you, Trisha!” she spits. “Why are you trying to ruin this for me? You selfish bitch.”

Trisha’s angry too now, angry that Michele is being a blind piece of shit and making a huge mistake. What does she think? That she and Manny are going to ride off into the sunset together like one of her cheesy movies?

“I’m selfish? Me?” She jabs her finger into Michele’s chest. “You’re the one who dragged me here to try on stupid dresses for your stupid wedding. I can’t believe you’re giving in to this degrading, misogynistic tradition-“

“Oh don’t fucking start with that feminist shit!” Michele yells. “You don’t give a fuck about that crap, so don’t pretend to now.”

They’re in each other’s faces now, fists clenched and jaws set. Michele is radiating anger, her face is red and she’s practically snarling like a mountain lion. Trisha wouldn’t be surprised if she took a swing at her. 

“All I’m saying,” she grinds out, “is that it’s bad enough you have to give up nine months of your life, nine months we could be pulling heists and taking scores, and now you’re going to marry the prick and forfeit even more of your life to him?”

Michele throws her hands up. “What the fuck are you even trying to say? I would have had to take off nine months whether I married him or not, to have the baby!”

“No, you wouldn’t have had to!” she bursts out.

Michele looks at her, confusion and rage written over her face. “Well, what else was I supposed to do?”

There are a few moments of silence after that. Neither of them say it, but the word hangs heavy in the air between them. _Abortion._ Trisha puts her hands up, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you should rethink this wedding.”

Michele drops her hands by her sides, looking tired. Trisha feels a little bad now; Michele had been looking so happy and vibrant earlier, and now she looks exhausted. Still, she has to have some sense knocked into her. 

“I can’t rethink it now, T, it’s in motion.”

Trisha puts her hands to her head and makes a noise of frustration; she can tell Michele is taken aback by it. “He’s going to leave you,” she says, feeling extremely frustrated. She doesn’t understand why Michele can’t grasp this. “Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you see that?”

Michele closes her eyes and rubs her hands over her face. “Just drop it, T. Please.”

They’re standing across from each other, tension and pain written in their bodies. Trisha wonders why Michele is being so stubborn, and so determined to ruin her own life. She was just trying to help her, to stop her from making a huge mistake.

Michele takes a deep breath. “Just go take the dress off so I can buy it, and we can get out of here.”

Trisha squares her shoulders and thinks about saying something else, but instead she storms into the dressing room stall. She’d been so resistant to coming in here earlier, but now she’s glad for the privacy of it. She’s upset and angry and, oddly, hurt that Michele won’t listen to her.

Before taking off the dress, she stares at herself in the mirror. The dress hangs limply on her frame, since she doesn’t have enormous tits like Michele does. She scoffs. She hates this dress, she hates how she looks in it, and she definitely doesn’t want to wear it to Michele’s wedding.

Once she’s done dressing, Michele takes the two dresses to the cashier while Trisha stands sullenly to the side. The lady at the register looks sort of nervous; she must have heard them arguing. Trisha really doesn’t give a fuck, but Michele obviously feels a little bad about it, because she’s smiling at her sheepishly.

They drive to Trisha’s motel in mostly silence, no radio and no talking. At one point, Trisha says, “Men are fucking worthless, man.” Michele doesn’t take her eyes off the road and only replies, “Sure, T. Whatever you say.”

Michele drops her off at the motel; Trisha doesn’t offer for her to come in and Michele doesn’t ask. She flops onto the dirty bed. She has no energy to drink or smoke or jack off or anything, so she lies there lifelessly, wishing that time would stop and the wedding wouldn’t come.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Trisha doesn’t go to Michele’s wedding. She tells Michele the night before the wedding, while they’re getting drunk during some half-assed bachelorette party she put together. Leslie and Brandi watch them awkwardly as they fight. Michele pleads and curses and yells until Trisha can tell she’s on the verge of tears, because she knows Michele better than that rat-faced husband of hers ever will.

“You’re my Maid of Honor, you have to come,” Michele tells her, voice quivering with anger and suppressed tears. 

“Maid of Honors don’t do shit anyway,” Trisha replies, stone-faced.

Michele curses her out, and instead of getting equally angry like she usually does, she just stands there while Michele gets more and more upset. Finally Michele tells her to leave, and she does, and the next day she doesn’t hear from her at all.

Instead of going to the wedding she stays in her motel room, shooting up heroin while lying limply on the bed. She thinks vindictively about how she’d love to cut Manny’s stupid, crocodile grin off his face, and how much he doesn’t deserve Michele, and how fucking stupid the name ‘Manny’ is. What an asshole. He’s going to leave her, she knows he will, and she feels bad for Michele, but at the same time she’d tried to warn her. What could she do now?

They’re probably dancing with each other right now, while a room full of other assholes ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ at them. Fucking ridiculous. Stupid, fucking, worthless tradition. 

She’s feeling sleepy, and thinking about different ways she could cut Manny’s balls off, when she realizes Michele’s lying on the bed next to her. When did she get here? She rolls over to face her, and Michele’s looking right at her. 

“Shooting up again, T?” she asks, and her voice sounds different, soft and gentle.

“Fuck off, M, you don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t do anymore. Not after what you did.”

“What’d I do?” Michele says, pushing Trisha’s hair out of her face.

“You got married. You fucking asshole. Why’d you do that? You don’t need that dick. You’ve got me.”

Michele smiles, and her face looks so soft and sweet and Trisha just wants to kiss her. “I’m sorry, T. I shouldn’t have done that.” Michele’s caressing the side of her face now, and it feels so good that Trisha closes her eyes and lets herself get washed away in the sensation. 

When Trisha opens her eyes again, Michele’s not there anymore, and she realizes that she hadn’t been there at all. Maybe it was a hallucination, maybe she’d been dreaming, it doesn’t really matter. Dream hallucination Michele wouldn’t leave her for rocker assholes. She’d rather be here with dream hallucination Michele than watching the real one kiss her stupid new husband.

Trisha curls into herself and takes a deep breath. She wants to stop thinking, especially about Michele, but the thoughts just keep coming, and finally she gets lost in them. She thinks about Michele’s eyes and her smile on the few occasions she does smile. She thinks about the two of them roughing it out of crappy motel rooms, and whether that will ever happen again, and how Michele having a fucking baby will change everything. She stuffs her face into the pillow, ordering herself not to think about that.

She falls asleep again imagining the feeling of Michele’s hands on her face.

**Author's Note:**

> Cis male Amanda (or Manny) is the lead singer for a rock band. He and Michele met while his band was performing in a bar.


End file.
